The Child Gladiator
by Ms. Britain
Summary: "300 days in captivity, countless lives whose blood is on my hands, and I haven't even had my sixth birthday yet." What if when Rome conquered England, France, Spain, and Germanica, they were forced to fight in the Coliseum? What if in the present, Rome came back from the dead and wanted to kill the Child Gladiator responsible for his downfall: England? The Gladiator fights again!
1. Shocking and Unfortunate News

The countries were all gathered for their monthly world meeting in Geneva, Switzerland. Nothing was being accomplished, as usual, with England and France beating each other up, Italy making white flags, Japan sensing the mood, and all the other countries arguing loud enough that the walls resounded the sounds back. America, for once, wasn't arguing and wanted to bring the meeting back under control.

"_I actually have something to say which everyone needs to hear!"_

He glanced at North and South Italy. "_I wonder how they will react to the news?"_

America stood up and yelled at the top of his lungs, "EVERYONE LISTEN TO ME!"

The other countries promptly ceased and America continued in a normal tone.

"I have some…interesting news to share that will affect all of us to some extent. I was strolling in Central Park when something strange began to happen. A gray fog swept over the area, so thick I couldn't see two feet in front of me. I stumbled around, feeling for a tree when I ran into someone, literally. Immediately, the fog cleared and I was face to face with a man supposedly dead but very much alive. We fought and then he ran away screaming in Latin."

America stared at the Italian brothers as he said, "Your Grandpa Rome is alive again, and he seems to want his empire back." South Italy's eyes widened in shock at the news, while North Italy began to cry. All the other countries' attention was on the brothers, except one.

England's eyes stared vacantly at the table, his face white as a sheet and his heart feeling as if it was beating out of his chest. His breath came in short, sporadic gasps as he felt the cell walls closing in on him. Memories began to flood his mind before he could lock them safely away. His lower lip began to quiver and his body started to tremble. He felt as if he was five years old again, frightened and insecure.

America glanced away from the Italians and noticed the older country on his left. His eyes filled with concern; he had never seen England exhibit fear before, and it worried him.

"Hey, England," America asked gently, "are you okay? What's wrong?"

All the other countries (France, Russia, Switzerland, Canada, China, Japan, North Italy, Germany, Spain, and South Italy) turned towards England and were shocked at the change that had occurred.

"_Mon lapin Angleterre, _you look terrible. Perhaps you should go lay down," said France as he stared intently at England.

Russia pulled out a pick-axe and smiled, "Maybe if we scare him, he will feel better?"

Switzerland's eyes popped, "Are you kidding, Russia? He's shaking; I think he's already scared enough!"

Canada softly said, "We should just leave him alone; that helps me all the time." None of the countries heard him.

"I have very good medicine, I could give him some," China piped up.

"Peace and quiet are the best medicine," said Japan quietly.

"We should make him pasta!" North Italy chimed.

"I say that we watch him slowly slip into madness," Germany and Spain muttered in sync.

"I don't see why he's so affected; only a fool would think a dead man can come to life!" shouted South Italy.

This last comment brought England's eyes back into focus as he responded, "No, only a fool would be unwilling to believe something America saw with his own eyes." He said it absently, and then rose from his seat.

"Excuse me, but I'm going to leave now. Here are my papers; you can call me cell phone if you have any questions." This sounded automated, mechanical even, as if only a small part of his brain was engaged in what he was saying. His haunted and half-crazed eyes locked on America as he left the room.

America fought the urge to follow him and endeavored to change the subject. "Anyway, there's no need to worry; England's being a drama queen. The world's first hero will save everyone!"

France, who had been pondering what could have evoked such a reaction from England, had cast his mind back several centuries and had awoken repressed memories. "No, _Mon ami,_ you were not the first hero."

America whipped his head around to stare at him. "What are you talking about, man? Of course I'm the first hero! Who would it be if it was not me?"

The other countries waited for France's answer.

"It is a long story, one I doubt you all want to hear."

Every country pulled their chairs in closer, eyes alight with anticipation. France smiled at their reaction, knowing he had awakened their interest with a few well-placed words. He looked at the Italian brothers and said, "This story makes you Grandpa Rome sound as if he is completely cold-hearted and ruthless. Do you still want to hear?" Both nodded yes.

He turned to Germany and told him, "Your ancestor is in this as well, but in a more favorable light." Germany leaned forward, anxious to hear.

France finally addressed Spain, "You will remember this: it was when we first met." Spain's eyes widened with the horror that England's had held.

"This is the story of the world's first hero, who fought for his very survival. He was a prisoner whose spirit was free, and who won the hearts of the people. He was the spark that ignited the fire that burned the Roman Empire to the ground. He was only five years old, yet he shot his lethal arrows with a skill unrivaled. He was the Child Gladiator…and he is England."

**A/N:** **Okay, from now on, it will be written as if the events of the past are happening in the present, because France isn't omnipresent and some scenes won't have him in them. If someone could give me a suggestion how old France and Spain should be in the past, it would be greatly appreciated. Eventually, I'll return to the present to tie everything together. Until then, it's ChibiEngland XD! Please Review!**

**French Translation: Mon: My **

**Lapin: Rabbit**

**Angleterre: England**

**Ami: Friend**


	2. Captured

_AD 43, England_

Britannia woke up feeling as if he were in the unnatural quiet before a storm. He glanced at the sky; all seemed well as the sun streamed down on his upturned face. He wore a simple white tunic and strapped sandals. He yawned and stood up, flexing his wings.

"_Perhaps I've been connected to a land mass too long; it's dashing my nerves to pieces. At least I do not have to carry that burden alone anymore."_

He smiled as he gazed down at the sleeping form of his son, England. Unlike many other civilizations, father and son shared the tie connecting them to the land. Ever since the lad's mother had died (a sharp pain stabbed his heart even at the fleeting thought of her), England had gained Britannia's ability to sense things about the land, events happening on the land mass were translated into feelings that both shared. They would know about a flood if torrents of tears would flow and neither of them was sad. It would be a forest fire if both of them became furious without provocation. In this manner, they would be able to act as guardians of Englaland, protecting the island's people and animals.

England opened his vibrant, emerald eyes to stare up at him, his unruly blonde hair filled with leaves from the tree they had slept under the previous night. He was only five years old, but already there was wisdom in those eyes surpassing his age. They still held, however, all of a child's innocence; at least the land had not stolen that from him...yet. He wore a forest green cloak over his tunic that his mother had embroidered around the hem (golden thread spirals, nothing feminine), and soft, leather shoes.

"Good morning, Daddy, are you ready for practicing yet!" The boy leaped to his feet in anticipation.

"What, already, England? I just woke up..." Britannia fake moaned piteously.

"Well, so did I, Daddy, and I am ready! Do you feel sick?" England peered up at him anxiously.

Britannia struggled to suppress a chuckle at his son's concerned face; no matter how many times he would pretend to not want to go practicing and then go, England was always fooled by his playacting.

"_The day he is not fooled is the day I will have to go practicing ready or not."_

"I am fine, little one. All right, you have convinced me to go!"

"Yay, I love to practice!" England shot forward as fast as his little legs could carry him.

"Wait, England! Have you not forgotten two very important things?" Britannia raised his brow quizzically.

"Oh, my bow and arrows," England raced back and grabbed them where they were leaning against the tree.

"That only counts as one thing, precious. Can you guess what the other one is?" Britannia once again had to repress a grin.

England's enormous brows tightened as he considered, "No, what is it, Daddy?"

"You have not had your daily medicine yet!" Britannia could not help grinning this time as England's eyes widened in mock terror.

"Oh no, Daddy, anything but that!" He sprinted away before Britannia could grab him.

"You forget, my little archer, that your Daddy can fly! Nowhere is safe from me!" Britannia spread his wings and flew off after him. A few seconds passed, and then England was in his arms.

"Here it comes!" Britannia exclaimed as he began to tickle England mercilessly.

"Stop, Daddy, stop," England gasped between bouts of laughter. He shrieked with joy as Britannia found his weak spots: his sides.

The tickle fest continued until they reached their destination: an abandoned field perfect for archery. Britannia landed, tears streaming down his and England's faces from laughing so hard.

"Okay, my little archer, we can practice longer now that you took a bigger dose of your medicine. Wait until the tears subside, so you can get a clear view of your target."

England nodded as Britannia wiped his tears off his face, and then took position at the far end of the field.

Britannia thought back to the day his wife had died. It had been swift; the invaders had come and gone from the home before the landmass could even register their presence. It was a complete shock when he had walked through the front door of their house to find the love of his life dead on the floor surrounded by a pool of blood. He had knelt down and wept, holding her close to him, but only for a few minutes before his thoughts had turned to England. He had raced through the house, frantically calling his son's name, when he had heard a faint response. He looked under his bed to find his terrified son's eyes looking into his own. He had pulled him out and had held him in his arms, rocking him back and forth, drying his tears with his tunic. England, (who, although three at the time could communicate very well) had pointed at the bow and arrows at Britannia's back.

"Teach me how to use them, Daddy. I don't want to leave you alone."

Ever since that day, he had been teaching the boy how to use the bow and arrow, first making a completely harmless set (no sharp metal arrowheads) perfect for his pint-sized hands. Two years later, and his son had practiced so much he was as good, if not better, than him. He could literally hit any target within a mile with fair accuracy, and within five hundred yards, he was lethal. Britannia sometimes wondered if he had done the right thing, but he continued to teach England how to defend himself and gave him his daily "medicine" to make sure that the lad retained his innocence.

Now, England cocked an arrow to the ready, honing in on an apple hanging four hundred yards away. He let his arrow fly, splitting the apple in half. He then glanced at a peach hanging six hundred yards away, and set an arrow loose, splitting that as well.

Britannia watched him practice for a couple of hours, shouting encouragement and marveling when England sliced a leaf in half from one thousand yards away. Britannia opened his mouth to tell England it was time to go home when a feeling hit him harder than it had ever done before. Hostile invaders were on the island, in fact, they were nine hundred yards behind them heading to the clearing. If he strained his ears, he could almost hear their weapons clanging. England stared at him, eyes widening; he had felt it too. Immediately, Britannia scooped England up into his arms and sprinted to the edge of the woods farthest away from the invaders. He wished he could fly away, but his duty as guardian obliged him to remain to fend off the invaders. He also wished he could move England further away, but there was no time and he did not know if there were more invaders out there.

"Daddy, what is going on? Where are you going?" England asked frantically.

"Stay here and stay hidden, little one. This battle is not yours to fight... I love you so much." Britannia kissed his son on the forehead and embraced him tightly.

"I love you too, Daddy," England whispered.

Leaving England secure, Britannia strode to the middle of the clearing with his bow already strung with an arrow. After what seemed like hours, the invaders came into view. His heart flew into his throat at the sheer number of them... it had to be two hundred men at least. They were garbed in golden breastplates and red tunics, with gold-plated, red-plumed helmets. They all carried short broad swords, and in front strode their leader. He was imposing, with dark brown hair and eyes. He carried himself with an air of command, and his men reciprocated by willing to follow him to the ends of the earth. Britannia's eyes narrowed at the sight of him; he had heard this man described to him once before.

"_So that is Rome...no wonder everyone fears him. I suppose that he thinks I'll give up without a fight like so many others. He will be a bit surprised before this night is over!"_

"Ah, so you are the personification of Englaland; a pleasure that we finally get to meet! I have heard so much about you!" Rome smiled as if they were about to become great friends.

"The pleasure would be all mine if it was just you and me at this meeting, but it seems you brought some friends who are not so friendly." Britannia replied.

"Well, you know how it is; you have to have an army to take over countries you know! I rather fancy yours is next." Rome's eyes hardened despite the playful bantering.

"I rather fancy you'll have to take it over my dead body!" Britannia shouted.

"As you wish, but I thought you would have made an excellent gladiator myself. Men, kill him!" Rome stepped back to watch as his men swarmed to take out the lone angel.

Rome swiftly became impressed by the man's resiliency. In an hour and a half, Britannia had taken out half of his men. "_What is he fighting so hard for? Surely not just for his life! No, he is protecting someone, I must find out whom!"_ Eventually, Rome's force was taken down to only fifty men. "_Alright, you have proven your worth. Now you will receive the honor of fighting me!"_

Britannia panted as he saw Rome making his way towards him, sword drawn. _"I have never been so tired in my life, I only have one arrow left, and I am about to face the greatest swordsman in the whole world. This is the end, I guess." _His thoughts turned to his son hiding in the bushes. _"I love you so much, son, more than my own life. I wish I could have spared you this."_ He placed the arrow in the bow, and aimed it at Rome.

Rome rushed forward, sword leveled at Britannia's heart. At a hundred yards away, Britannia shot the arrow. A breeze blew ever so slightly, and the arrow which would have gone into Rome's heart went into his left (not sword) arm instead. Britannia cursed his luck and his landmass's weather, "_I'm defending you, and you choose to have a breeze right then!"_ and prepared to die. Rome's sword found its target. As Britannia's eyes glazed and he fell forward, the last thing he heard sent his heart sinking.

"_NOOOOOOOO!"_

A heart-wrenching scream filled the night air. England burst from the bushes and began to shoot the fifty soldiers who raced at him. He brought down twenty-five of them before one reached him and pulled him off the ground by his hair. The soldier whipped out his knife, about to slit the child's throat, when Rome shouted,

"Stop, that's an order!"

The baffled soldier obeyed, sliding his knife back into its sheath. Rome sauntered up to the soldier and began to examine England, who twisted to and fro to get away, even though the pain from his pulled roots must have been unbearable. He saw the same blonde hair, the same green eyes, and the same gargantuan eyebrows as the man he had just killed.

"_So this is_ _the person he died to protect. I understand why now. It is his son."_

He gazed harder into the grief-stricken, hate-filled eyes and gasped in shock. The boy had the same wisdom in his eyes as he did and the child's father had had. "_This boy is a country!"_

He gazed at the twenty-five men who the child had downed in less than five minutes. "_Perhaps he would do well in the Coliseum."_

England bit the soldier's hand to get free. As the soldier howled in pain, he ran to the body of his father. He knelt down, tears welling up in his eyes.

"No, Daddy, do not go! Do not leave me alone! I am so sorry, Daddy, I let you down!" sobbed England as he hugged him for the last time. As he withdrew he felt his father's quiver and pulled it off of him. The quiver had been priceless before Britannia's passing, encrusted with jewels and inlaid with elegant gold and silver filigree; now that he was gone, the jewels were only a small part of why it was priceless to England. It was the only thing he would have of his father. He placed his arrows in the quiver and slung it over his back. He turned to run when Rome himself grabbed him this time.

"I do not think so; you are coming with me."

As England began to tremble, Rome turned to the twenty-five soldiers he had remaining.

"Let us return home, men; we have what we came for."

**A/N: Duh duh duh! First off, just wanted to thank all my lovely reviewers and those who added this to their favorites and story alerts; I literally couldn't stop grinning for an hour! I especially want to thank the anonymous review who gave me age suggestions for France and Spain, you are most helpful! Hope you loved the new chapter and am excited to see if there will be any new reviews! **


	3. Incarceration

Tears streaming down his cheeks, England struggled to free himself from Rome's iron grasp every step of the way to the conqueror's ship. He thrashed about until the only thing keeping him from collapsing in a heap was Rome's grip. Utterly exhausted, he trudged on as what was left of Rome's army followed close behind the two countries. He glanced at the man's face towering above him, and asked in a voice raw with crying and screaming,

"Why did you kill my father and let me survive? What are you going to do with me?"

Rome continued to stride through the forest as if he had not heard the child's plea, yet the already vise-like grip tightened on England's arm. Wincing in pain, England decided,

"_I think I will not ask him again."_

After two hours of non-stop marching, the group reached their destination: the coast of Englaland. A ship was anchored five hundred yards out, with multiple rowboats on the shore awaiting the army's return.

Despite all that had happened to him that night, England could not help but stare in awe at the vessel as he thought,

"_What are those fluffy white sheets at the top, that big pillar in the middle, or that strange lady on the front? I have never seen one of these before! "_

He would have gazed on the ship for hours if Rome had not hauled him to a boat and roughly deposited him on the seat. Rome glanced at England, and the cold, calculating gaze that froze England's blood was in stark contrast to his words:

"Be careful not to fall out of the boat; the water is freezing right now, and I would not want to have one of my men die fishing you out."

England began to slightly tremble again as the boats were cast off into the sea. He looked fearfully at the water.

"_Daddy had not taught me how to swim yet, I would die if I fell in. Maybe I should move in closer to the middle."_

He started to move towards Rome, but then stopped abruptly. He clenched his fists and he peered down at the bottom of the boat.

"_No. I have to be strong now. I will not let this bad man see me weak. I want to be more like Daddy."_

England kept his eyes down even when he felt the boat stop. Before he quite knew what was happening, the bottom of the boat was replaced with a smooth, wooden floor. He heard Rome and his men board the ship after him, but he did not look up for one second. He stood staring at the deck, shivering with cold and shock.

"_If I look down, it makes everything feel like it is just a nightmare. This is not real; I am sleeping! Please wake me up, Daddy! If I look up…everything will be all wrong, and I am so scared, Daddy. I need you here with me…"_

His lower lip quivered for a moment before hardening into a line of resolve.

"_I have to look up. I will be my daddy's little archer. I must see what I fight for before it is too late."_

England raised his eyes to look back at the only home he had ever known. He felt the tears in his eyes, waiting to overflow, but pushed them back with a great effort. As he looked back at Englaland, a wave of emotions crashed into him with a force that left him gasping for breath. A great weight settled on his shoulders until he felt as if the sheer mass of it would send him falling through the ships floor. His eyes widened as he wondered,

"_Wha…wha…what is this? Could it be that the island gave Daddy's power to me?"_

A change came over the island as he watched. Great, rolling thunderclouds darkened the sky that had not been there moments before. All at once, water began to pour down in torrents. A moaning, wailing, forlorn wind began to whip around the landmass. Thunder boomed, lightening flashed, and trees snapped in half. Animals lined up on the shore and watched the ship sail away. All of Englaland cried out in her different voices, mourning the death of one of her protectors, and the loss of the other.

This was too much for England as he sunk to his knees in grief for the second time that day. As his saltwater mixed with the freshwater running down his upturned face, a fire flickered momentarily in his breast. His eyes locked on Rome's, burning with that fire. As he looked into those eyes, England vowed,

"_I do not know how or when, but I will return to my home. I promise you, Daddy, you will be avenged, if it is the last thing I do!"_

_Rome, 22 days later_

After a short trip across the channel, a grueling march through Gaul, and a longer voyage by ship, England stood on deck (some soldier had taken a liking to him, and had told him what all the parts of the ship were) and gazed in awestruck wonder at the city of Roma. The archways, columns, aqueducts, fountains, statues, roads, and buildings caused him to think,

"_This is like a fairytale! I never thought places like this could exist! _ _Look at all these people! I have never seen so many at one time before!"_

He did not have long to admire the view however, as Rome's red cloak swept past him as the man strode to force England's full attention on himself. He had something metal in his hands, which caused England to tilt his head in befuddlement.

"_What could that be for?"_

He would have asked Rome, but he had learned early on that questions were only answered with beatings, which had caught England completely off guard. His daddy had **never** beaten him, so it was a complete shock the first time he had been slapped in the face hard enough to bleed. Afterwards, he did not ask any more questions.

Therefore, he waited to see what it was for. Rome knelt down and swiftly clasped two metal cuffs around England's hands and two around his feet before he could blink. A short chain connected the two cuffs together, while a longer one ended in Rome's outstretched hand. England's eyes widened as Rome explained,

"These are chains; you cannot escape from them, do not hurt yourself trying. They mean that you are a prisoner; you are no longer free, and the only freedom you will ever receive again is the freedom to die." He laughed, a cruel, slow laugh, as he finished, "Even that freedom is my choosing. Prepare yourself, archer, to meet your father soon!"

England struggled to keep an expressionless face, yet he did.

"_I will not make him happy seeing me cry!"_

He met Rome's eyes defiantly. Rome's eyes revealed nothing, but he thought,

"_Yes, this boy will go far in my games. How far is the question."_

Rome grasped the chain and pulled England roughly down the plank leading to the cobblestones below. England stumbled slightly, unused to the chains. This caused Rome to pull even harder, launching England in the air to land painfully on the ground. He cried out in agony, but was hauled to his feet and led away into the very heart of Roma.

Limping and struggling to keep pace with the uninjured adult, England barely noticed the impressive buildings surrounding him. He could barely think with his mind clouded by the pain; all he could manage was,

"_Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving, do not stop, do not stop,"_

The words resounded in his head as a rhythm to walk to, and that was what saved him from Rome's wrath. England become so absorbed in this rhythm he almost ran into Rome when the man stopped. He glanced up to see what had caused the interruption and his mouth dropped in amazement.

An enormous building rose from the street, making the already short England feel like an ant. It was round, with arch upon arch surrounding it. Various statutes sat in niches in the stonework, and throngs of people milled about in front of it. It was an impressive sight, yet England inexplicably felt a chill crawl down his spine.

"_I do not like this place. It feels wrong somehow."_

Rome stared at the building beaming with pride. "Do you want to know what that is, archer? That is the Coliseum, one of my greatest achievements. I provide entertainment for the people there: men fight to the death there, against beasts and each other. The gladiators are some of the finest fighters of my empire. What do you think of it?"

England wet his dry lips before speaking, "I think what entertainment means to you is different from what it means to me."

Rome laughed once more, yet this one seemed more humored than the last. "You may be right, archer, but look on my Coliseum well... for this is the last time you will see it from the outside."

He led England to a large barred gate that a guard opened from the other side. The two countries walked through, and then the gate was closed behind them. Rome began to descend down three flights of stairs until all sunlight had vanished, leaving nothing but torchlight illuminating the pitch-black corridor. England began to shake violently as he thought,

"_Anything but the dark, anything but the dark; not even Daddy could help me all the time! Why did it have to be the dark?"_

If Rome felt him shaking, he showed no sign of it. He continued to walk down the corridor until he stopped in front of a room with iron bars in front. He explained,

"This is a cell; where prisoners like you live. Enjoy your new home and new life while you can," he opened the cell door, flung England headlong into it, and locked the door behind him. Rome then spun around and returned to the sunlit freedom above.

England almost faded into unconsciousness due to the doubled pain of being hurled to the ground twice, but somehow managed to sit up stiffly. There was no one to impress with his acts of strength anymore; he promptly began to sob, tears streaming down his cheeks like tiny rivers. He brought his knees to his chest and continued to cry into them.

"Vous allez bien, mon petit?" A voice called from the darkness.

England stopped sobbing, and slowly peered up, his eyes full of fear…to find three sets of eyes looking straight into his own.

**A/N: I FINALLY UPDATED! Sorry everyone who had to wait so long, I did not mean to keep you waiting! Shout out to Unleashed111, who "encouraged strongly" for me to update! Poor Iggy…I felt terrible writing this! Oh, and the French phrase is this:**

**Are you alright, little one?**


	4. Introductions

England's initial fear was quickly replaced with curiosity as the eyes' owners remained hidden in the shadows. He rose to his feet with a small gasp of pain and slowly edged towards them. After a few steps, however, his foot caught in an unseen crack in the floor, sending him to the ground once more.

"Help!" England managed to squeak mid-fall in the rough Latin the sailors had taught him.

A pair of arms caught him a split-second before he made contact. England peered up at his rescuer's face, his eyes straining in the dim light to make out any features. His rescuer was a tall, pale man with flowing blonde hair and blue eyes, who had an expressionless face. He was dressed in a tattered, dirt-streaked tunic and frayed sandals. The man released England before stating in a flat tone,

"You should be more careful in here; it is dangerous."

The man merely glanced at him, yet England felt as if his very soul was being turned inside out with the depth of that gaze. After nodding almost imperceptibly, the man motioned the other two sets of eyes forward. He then walked back towards the other end of the cell without another word.

"Thank you for helping me," England called to the man's retreating back.

"Are you all right once again, little one? I despise having to speak these animals' language, but it seems to be the only one all of us prisoners will know!" exclaimed a new, higher-pitched voice from the darkness.

The owner stepped closer to England to reveal a boy around his own age, but not anywhere near (to England's annoyance) his height, causing him to look up to see the boy's face. It was framed with golden, shoulder-length locks, and his eyes were a wide sapphire blue. Although wearing a torn blue tunic, he had a regal purple cape that seemed untouched by his dire living conditions.

Irritated by the "little one", England replied heatedly,

"Of course I am all right! Why would I ever not be? It is not as if everything is wrong!"

The boy's eyes narrowed, and he was about to speak, when another boy came closer.

"Why do we not all calm down a little and tell each other about ourselves, no? We may have to fight to the death later on, but we should all try to get along now, _si? _My name is Spain, what is yours?"

With his curly, brown hair and jade green eyes, Spain smiled encouragingly at England. He was taller than England as well, and one sleeve of his tunic was torn off, used as a bandage for a wound on his leg. Unlike his other cellmates, Spain seemed to be quite cheerful, as if he was unaware of his surroundings. England almost returned his infectious smile before catching himself as he answered,

"My name is England, son of Britannia, protector of Englaland. Do your friends have names too, and what do you mean, 'fight to the death'?" he waited with held breath.

"Of course we have names too; it would be very strange to not have one, England! My name is France, despite these barbaric Romans referring to me as Gaul! Oh, and that is Germania over there; since he does not say much. Did that pig of a man Rome not tell you? We are gladiators; they will take us to the Coliseum, where we will fight either lions or other gladiators, and will watch us fight for our lives to amuse themselves!" The blonde boy spat on the floor in disgust after this speech.

England's lower lip quivered as his mind futilely attempted to absorb France's words.

"_How will I ever be able to fight against a lion or another man? I am too small, and they took my quiver and bow away! If I only had those, I could do it, but would Rome give them back to me? Either way, I will have to try to survive, for Daddy's sake, which means I should know more about who I may fight against."_

"Well then, we will have to make sure they are disappointed by our survival! Rome conquered my home and took me captive; why are all of you here? Are you captive countries as well?" he paused, waiting for their answers.

"Yes, we shall show them all how strong we are, my friend," Spain nodded, "and Rome took me captive as well, about two years ago. It was harvest time for my family's tomatoes, and I was out in the field. A whole legion came that day and burned the plants and my house to the ground. I ran frantically to the house, calling my family's names, but I never heard them answer. That was when the legion general rode by on his horse and swung me into his saddle before galloping back to Rome. I have been here ever since, but I have only been in the Coliseum once; that is where I got my wound from a lion. The emperor chose to spare me, or else I would have been killed."

Tears formed in the corners of his eyes for a moment, but they quickly dissipated as he leaned forward to reassure England,

"My family could have escaped before me, and I am still living after the horrible lion; life is not so terrible after all, no? I am sure that they will not call you for the arena for a long while, if ever!"

"You should not lie to him, Spain; he could very well be taken in at any time! You and your ridiculous optimism would be the death of us all if we were not going to die already," France exclaimed, "but to answer your question, _Angleterre, _my story is tragic in the extreme. It was three years ago when my _mère_ went out to collect food for my _père _and I, while my_ père _chopped wood for the fire. I was alone in the house when the soldiers burst inside, dragged me out of the house by my hair, and rode away with me as their captive. I only hope they did not kill my parents first," France wiped a tear from his eye and continued, "and I have never been in the arena, I have been stuck in this horrible cell for all this time! It is a wonder that my cape has survived these wretched conditions!"

"_Perhaps I heard wrong, but I think he was concerned with his cape of all things! Angleterre?! What does that mean?" _England puzzled after France's dramatic speech.

"My story is simple; my ally betrayed me and took over my land, throwing me in his cells. I have fought in the Coliseum for ten years, and you should be prepared, young one, to fight. You are a fighter, I can tell, and Rome will know it as well as I," Germania spoke gravely, and then relapsed into his silence.

Eyes widened, England was about to respond when a soldier appeared at the cell door. Unlocking the door, he strode through the opening while his voice resonated off the prison walls,

"The one called England is required by the people of Rome; which one of you is he?"

England swallowed once before answering, "I am he; what am I required for?"

The guard grabbed England's arm roughly and dragged him out of the cell before locking the door behind him. He looked pityingly on the boy and thought,

"_He is so young; my son is around his age! Perhaps Rome was mistaken?"_

He answered England with the rough voice only strict training allowed him to have,

"You will find out soon enough."

The two walked down the torch lit corridor until they came to a platform, which the soldier placed England on. England peered down at the smooth surface and glimpsed patches of blood covering the platform. His stomach turned as he wondered,

"_Where am I going? Is it…that place? Help me to be strong now, Daddy."_

The soldier drew out keys and unlocked the shackles from England's arms while locking his legs unto the platform. As England rubbed his bleeding wrists to restart his circulation, another soldier appeared with England's bow and quiver. These he placed directly in front of England on the platform, where England could not reach them.

"Your legs will be unlocked once you reach the top," the soldier explained as he stepped off the platform.

The platform began to rise, and a trapdoor in the ceiling suddenly opened, causing England to shut his eyes quickly as the sun shone into them. A few seconds later, he opened his eyes to find his platform fully raised and his leg shackles unlocked. He was standing in a wide, circular arena with thousands of people watching him. He barely noticed the massive crowd's roar as he appeared in the Coliseum; he was much more concerned with the roar of the massive, yellow animal that was charging at him.

After a moment's pause, England dove for his bow and quiver, his hands curving around the familiar grooves and drawing an arrow in a fluid motion. He aimed at the charging beast's forehead, directly between its eyes. His entire frame shook from the tension of the bow; his battered muscles unable keep the bow steady. The beast was only ten yards away and coming in fast, as he thought,

"_If I miss, I will die. Let my aim be true!"_

Staring into the gaping jaws of death, England released his arrow.

**A/N: Thank you all so much for reading this! Over 1000 reads! It totally blew my mind, and sorry for this chapter, I hope you guys didn't get bored with all the character development! Will Iggy get away unscathed?**


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